Two Sane Men
by Stupid Mr. Park
Summary: What if Miles Upshur and Waylon Park had bumped into each other? Oneshot. Contains spoilers for Outlast and the DLC Outlast: Whistleblower. Rated T for GRAPHIC INJURY DETAILS.


Miles Upshur was hiding in a locker when he heard the footsteps. They were approaching fast, like someone was running towards him. Looking through the locker gaps with his camera, he could just about see them. It was a Variant.

It ran over to the locker and opened it. They both wore matching expressions. The Variant looked shocked to see another human being. Miles was surprised to see this one looked different to all the others. This one looked human.

"He's following me," the Variant gasped. It looked up at Miles. "Please, let me in."

Miles was speechless. Were there no other lockers? Who was following the Variant?

He could hear someone calling from another room. The Variant seemed more and more agitated.

Miles shifted as much as he could to allow room. The Variant quickly clambered in and pressed itself against the wall to give Miles more space. Miles shut the door and waited, breathing shallowly. They were awkwardly close. Miles concentrated on the locker door, holding his camera by his side.

"Darling, I know you're here somewhere! You shouldn't run from me!"

It was a harsh voice, loud and desperate. Miles stared at the Variant. Darling?

"Who is it?" he whispered. The Variant threw him a dirty look to tell him to shut up.

"Darling, please. Why are you running? Stop playing games, now. Don't you love me? Think of us. Think of our children. Don't you want them?"

Every word made Miles more and more worried. Who was searching for the Variant he was hiding in a locker with? What was all this talk about children and love?

Ten minutes later and all sound was gone. The man searching for the Variant had long since gone. Miles pushed the locker door open after checking and they tumbled out into the room, glad to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the locker.

Miles took this opportunity to look at the Variant in full. What he saw alarmed him.

The Variant was wearing a wedding dress. It was patchy, sewn from white material, but the proportions were made well, like the maker had experience.

"Who are you?" Miles demanded. The Variant looked at him, breathless. "Why are you wearing a dress? What's all this talk of children and love? What's 'darling' about?"

His voice rose in pitch and volume. With a scared shush, the Variant inhaled slowly. It began to speak.

"My name is Waylon Park. I worked here. I was caught sending an tip-off to a man called Miles Upshur."

Miles stared at him.

"You're my whistle-blower? I mean, you sent me the email?"

Waylon stared back as it dawned on him who he was talking to.

"Wait, you're Miles Upshur? You came?" he asked.

Miles nodded before rubbing a hand across his face, trying to take it all in.

"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Children, love, darling? Are you-"

"It's Eddie Gluskin, the groom," Waylon interrupted uncomfortably. He was nervously fiddling with one of the dress straps but stopped when he realized what he was doing. "He's a Variant. He walks around looking for me and thinks I'm a woman."

Miles had nothing to say. He thought getting two fingers cut off by Trager was bad. Sure, it had hurt like HELL, but at least he wasn't being chased by a man trying to marry him.

Waylon motioned at the door. Then he noticed Miles' camera and his face twisted into a wry smile.

"I had one of those. I lost it," he said. He shook his head slowly as if if the memory was distant and foggy. "Let's go."

Miles went first, Waylon following. They crept though an endless maze of rooms, past muttering Variants and- at one point- past Chris Walker. Hours passed.

They were halfway through a particularly long room which had an open door at the end when Waylon spoke.

"Miles," Waylon said in a low voice. Miles shifted to see Waylon crouching behind a table two meters away. "Miles, I can hear him. Gluskin."

It took Miles a moment to remember who Gluskin was. Then he remembered: the groom. He heard singing from another room. He raised a finger to his lips before they continued towards the open door. So close now, so close.

Miles checked around himself. Nobody. He stood and bolted for the door. Seeing Miles do this, Waylon followed. Miles was sprinting through the door before a gasp cut through the air.

"Miles!"

He spun to see Waylon, just in the doorway. Two hands with fingerless gloves on were clamped around him. Waylon was hanging onto the doorframe with one hand, the other reaching out to Miles. He cried his name again.

Miles ran back and grabbed onto the flailing hand. He got his first view of the groom.

Gluskin was wearing the formal attire a bridegroom would usually wear. His eyes were pale blue, the right sclera filled with blood so that it was red. The groom's eyes were fixed upon Waylon, who was struggling to hold on.

"Come on, darling, stop fighting!" Gluskin shouted. Waylon looked up at Miles.

"Don't let him take me," he begged. Miles' hands were sweaty and his grip on Waylon's arm was slipping. The groom noticed and, keeping one hand around his target, moved past Waylon, drawing a knife, which he sliced through the air towards Miles. Pain exploded in Miles' side and he let go of Waylon's hand.

As Miles dropped to the floor he saw Gluskin yank Waylon up over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Waylon was trying to free himself. Gluskin didn't even seem to register this.

"Come, my bride," he sang to Waylon, "we have yet to get rid of all the vulgarities before our children are here."

This drew a desperate wail of 'No!' from Waylon. As he was carried away he screamed Miles' name. Miles reached out, his vision flickering from light to dark. The pain in his side throbbed with every pulse of his heart but the knife hadn't cut him too deeply. The shock of it had knocked him to the floor but the pain was just about bearable. He stumbled to his feet, supporting himself against the doorframe Waylon had clung onto minutes before. He picked up Gluskin's knife.

Waylon was depending on him. Miles didn't know what 'get rid of all the vulgarities' meant but, judging by Waylon's cries for help, it wasn't something good.

He limped through the door and followed the cries, which were faint but audible. Miles was making surprisingly fast progress. He thought back to when he had met Waylon, only hours before. So much had happened in the last five minutes compared to the rest of the day.

He had his camera in one hand and the groom's large knife in the other as he made his way forwards through the dark rooms. The cries were much less frequent but were louder now. Miles turned a corner and saw light flickering out from under a door. There.

He raced towards the light and barreled headfirst through the doors. He saw Gluskin trying to lift a struggling Waylon onto a bloodstained table with a whirring buzzsaw at one end.

"Dammit, darling, you need to behave!" Gluskin was growling before he saw Miles. Waylon's eyes widened and he stopped struggling for a second. It was enough.

Gluskin slammed Waylon onto the table. The dress flipped up, the skirts bunching around Waylon's knees as he tried to scramble away from the saw. Miles saw it in slow motion.

One of Waylon's kicking legs caught the saw edge.

The blades ripped down through the foot, slicing directly through the heel, before his leg jerked and the saw reached the flesh on his shin, mutilating the skin and shredding the muscle.

Gluskin, holding Waylon down.

Waylon screaming so hard his throat tore.

Miles rushed at them and, using the element of surprise, managed to drag Gluskin off Waylon. Stumbling back, Gluskin's hand slammed down onto the saw. He gave a furious roar of pain.

Miles grabbed Waylon and ran at the closest open window.

"No!" Gluskin shouted. As Miles jumped he felt a hand brush his leg but it didn't manage to grab hold. Then he and Waylon were suspended in the darkness, trailed by a rainbow of red from Waylon's destroyed leg. Then-

Falling

Falling down

Falling into the darkness-

Miles felt something break as he hit the floor. Waylon hit the ground and rolled some distance away. He wasn't moving.

Miles sat up, shaking himself gingerly. No pain oddly, just a lot of bruises. He looked for what had broken. He found the culprit. He had landed on his camera, which was smashed. He felt oddly sentimental as if he had lost a friend. He was only glad he hadn't landed on the knife he had taken from Gluskin.

Now to check on Waylon. After dragging him into the cover of some trees, Miles checked his leg. Not looking good.

Waylon's left shin was ripped up, torn so deep Miles could see a glimpse of bone. The skin was gray and blood was leaking rapidly from the wound.

Waylon stirred. He first coughed violently, blood speckling his hand. Then he began to shake. He looked down at his leg.

"Oh, god. Oh my god."

He repeated this many times. He was going into shock and Miles knew there was no way to heal the leg. He watched helplessly as Waylon rolled onto his front and vomited, like he had done when Trager cut off his fingers.

Miles knew he would have to amputate. Otherwise, the wound would get infected and destroy Waylon's entire leg, rather than just below the knee. He retrieved the knife and stood over Waylon with shaking hands.

"I'm going to have to cut it off," he said, voice cracking. Waylon looked up at him, eyes wide. Despite his weak protests Miles knew he probably wouldn't survive the night with such a wound.

He made Waylon lie on his back as still as possible. He rolled the dress hem so it rested just above Waylon's knees. Then Miles hunted for a stick and found a small but solid one, which would withstand the full pressure of Waylon's teeth if he bit down.

Miles kneeled by the shivering man and tore off some long strips of material from the dress to work as bandages. Next, he felt for the joint. He rested the cold knife blade just below the knee it so it would include less sawing. He wished he could sterilize the blade.

"Are you ready?" he asked in a shaky voice. Waylon didn't reply but his fists clenched. The knife pressed down and began to cut through the leg. Waylon threw his head back and his hands dug into the ground, breathing heavily. It was all going okay.

"Little pig."

There was a deep, harsh voice behind Miles and he knew who it was without turning. He wasn't even halfway, he couldn't stop cutting now. But there was no bargaining with Chris Walker. He lifted Miles off the ground and tore off his arm with a grunt. Miles was cast back to the floor, his blood mingling with Waylon's.

After a long arduous fight, the only two sane men in the entire of Mount Massive Asylum finally died.


End file.
